


lucky ones

by playexodus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Interview, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, isn't that nice, osakita if you squint, so does osakita, they also have a kid, they're married your honor, where is the plot you ask? i ate it and spat out nonsense fluff instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playexodus/pseuds/playexodus
Summary: "I was lucky enough to survive this long. Lucky to meet people. Lucky to still be playing volleyball." -Haikyuu!!, Chapter 394The two of them. Miya Atsumu and Miya Kiyoomi. Some force is at work here, powerful enough to drag together two people who should never have been friends, much less married, and it’s right there on the world stage for everyone to witness.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 15
Kudos: 410





	lucky ones

**Author's Note:**

> just really wanted atsumu as a dad. really wanted to make it happen. so here we are.

“Miya-san,” begins the interviewer. Both Kiyoomi and Atsumu’s heads swivel to look at her, and she smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, Atsumu-san,” she amends, “this was your first Olympics with your husband! Not many people are lucky enough to experience something like that. What was it like, getting to play with your partner in life, on the world stage?” 

The question settles like a weight on Atsumu’s shoulders. He knows all this already, of course, but hearing it from someone else solidifies it into something enormous that lodges in his throat. It feels like the sum of every dream he’s worked for, years of volleyball seared into every fiber of his muscles, years of loving Kiyoomi coded into his nerves. He absorbs for a moment. 

“It’s not somethin’ we really think about when we play, I’d say. I mean, we’ve been on the same team for years, and I pay attention to my surroundings and everythin’ when I’m on the court, but we’re both pretty focused.”

“But in the moments before and after the game, does this feel really meaningful for the two of you?”

Making it to the Japanese National Volleyball Team is a dream that feels like holding sand - for Atsumu especially, when Kageyama is consistently beating him for the top setter spot in Japan. Then there’s Iizuna Tsukasa, nipping at his heels. It’s not that he doesn’t think he’s good, it’s that he knows how good the others are. If he falters, he’ll be eaten alive.

Atsumu loves it, though. 

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu steals a kiss from his lips as he wakes.

Kiyoomi nods sleepily, black curls splayed onto the white pillow. Atsumu runs a finger down the bridge of his nose, then traces his jaw. Kiyoomi’s lashes flutter against his cheek. He resists the urge to kiss his pale eyelids. 

“I’ll make us coffee.”

It’s Atsumu’s day off from training with the Jackals, but it’s mostly because the acceptance calls are supposed to come in. Most of the Jackals’ first string have a decent shot at making the Japanese national team, and there’s no point training when they’re all on edge. Athletes have a ticking countdown clock on their careers and a limited number of shots at playing at the world level. Not to mention the risk of injury, the grueling travel, all of it putting a constant strain on them. 

Atsumu’s blood is buzzing. The Olympics. The National Team. He’s so close he can taste it.  
He’s young, sure, but his serves and his sets, the things he’s worked to perfect for so long, they’re good enough. He wants to play, wants to don that red uniform and put up the best sets for the best spikers in the country. That’s the dream that’s slowly permeated every cell of his being for years, and that’s what makes the waiting so damn painful.

It’s when the coffee is dripping into his and Kiyoomi’s mugs that the phone rings.

“Hello?” Atsumu tries not to let his breathing speed up.

“Hello, Miya-san?”

It’s one of the Black Jackals’ managers. “Yeah, this is Miya Atsumu.”

“Miya-san,” the woman on the other end says carefully, and Atsumu already feels the pit in his stomach swallowing him whole.

“I’m really sorry, but they’ve passed on you for Rio.”

The bitterness threatens to erode the nerve endings in his gums. Atsumu inhales. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“I just thought you’d have preferred to hear it from me, instead of just waiting around by the phone all day.” She sighs again, then says, “We all know how good you are, Miya-san. Give it time, you’ll get another shot.”

Atsumu clenches his empty fist. “Yeah. Thanks again.”

His fingers burn. Another four years - It’ll be another four years before he gets another shot.

“Atsumu.” The voice comes from behind him. He turns around to see Kiyoomi, eyes holding onto the remnants of sleep but still alert. There isn’t an ounce of sympathy in them.

“You’ll get it next time.”

It’s almost the same thing that the manager had said to him, but from Kiyoomi, with absolute certainty, Atsumu’s fallen dream is handed back to him in pale hands. 

He musters up a grin. “Next time, you’ll get in with me.”

“It’s more than meaningful.” 

How can Atsumu encapsulate the magic of achieving a dream with the person you treasure most in the world by your side, in words? 

He doesn’t bother trying. “It’s everything.”

——

“Then, Kiyoomi-san, could you tell us what it meant to have your family watching from the stands?

In the middle of a match, Miya Atsumu and Miya Kiyoomi are not husbands. They are not lovers, or parents, or friends. They are setter and outside hitter, and the ball connects them in a way nothing else can. Atsumu’s sets are considerate and clean, and Kiyoomi’s spikes are bitterly unpredictable. 

But the names on the backs of their jerseys are a reminder. Not just for them, but for everyone watching. It’s for the screaming fans, the casual and the ardent, the ones enamoured with the idea of them as partners and the ones who love watching them execute perfect plays in tandem. It’s for the passersby on the streets, or the people nursing their drinks in bars, watching the Japan Olympic Volleyball Team play on TV. It’s for those that only care to cast a glance, and those who spend hours huddled around their screens for every point scored. 

The two of them. Miya Atsumu and Miya Kiyoomi. Some force is at work here, powerful enough to drag together two people who should never have been friends, much less married, and it’s right there on the world stage for everyone to witness. 

Neither Atsumu nor Kiyoomi care too much about _everyone_ , though. But there are a few people, sitting in the stands, and some others watching from their respective screens - people they consider family. And most important of all, there’s a little girl, with Atsumu’s half lidded eyes and Kiyoomi’s distinctive curly hair, clenching her little fists as she wriggles in her grandma’s arms. “Look, Mitsuru,” her grandma points at Atsumu, setting for Kiyoomi, the clean arc of the ball and the blinding speed as her dad sends it into a rocketing curve. 

She watches Atsumu hold out a fist, and Kiyoomi, without looking, bumps it with his own. Her wriggling stops, and the glittering smile on Atsumu’s face occupies all her attention. Her grandma smoothes her hair and says, “Aren’t they amazing?” Her little 1-year-old brain doesn’t understand the syllables falling from her grandma’s mouth, but her gaze is fixed on two familiar figures, the arc of their bodies as they leap into the air. She goes quiet and wide-eyed. 

Japan calls a timeout. As Kiyoomi and Atsumu walk back to the bench, towels around their necks, Kiyoomi reaches for Atsumu’s pinky with his own. When Atsumu gives him a questioning look, he jerks his head towards the stands. Atsumu’s mom is holding their little girl’s hand up and moving it in a furious wave, both of them laughing. Her white teeth glow, and Kiyoomi feels the noise around him - briefly - evaporate. His heart fills with some unnamed emotion, the kind that languages have not quite figured out how to express. Atsumu squeezes his pinky, and they bring their focus back to their coach. 

“It’s difficult to explain,” Kiyoomi tells the interviewer, a faraway look in his eyes. “But our families’ support means everything to us.”

The interviewer laughs, “Kiyoomi-san, there must be more to it than that!”

“There is,” he acquiesces, “but I think there are some experiences that can only be understood by the people that live through them.” 

Atsumu nods his agreement.

____

“I’m sure that for two busy athletes, raising a child must’ve been a difficult decision to make. Kiyoomi-san, what made the two of you decide to adopt?”

It’s the third night in a row that Osamu’s dropped off his son at their apartment, barely stopping for a full conversation before taking off. Onigiri Miya’s been swamped with orders at their new location in Osaka, and Osamu’s happy for the business, but it also means that Kita’s too busy at the farm to look after their son too. Unfortunately, their best option for babysitting is Atsumu. 

“I don’t trust _him_ ,” Osamu says, pointing at Atsumu without looking, “But I trust you. Thanks again, Kiyoomi-kun. Call me if there’s anything.”

Atsumu sputters in protest, but Osamu is already gone. “Can’t believe he thinks I can’t take care of a kid fer one day! One goddamn day!”

Kiyoomi ignores him. “Come on, Atsumu. Morning walk, then he naps.”

“Omi! Don’t tell me ya agree with him!” 

The day slides by, slow and soft and warm. The weather is pleasant, the sky clear as sunlight drips like water from every surface. Kiyoomi cooks dinner and Atsumu feeds his nephew, cooing at him affectionately. Kiyoomi tries not to think about the way Atsumu matches his expressions to the baby’s - a wide, toothy grin answered by another wide grin, tongues lolling out in tandem - Kiyoomi’s chest hurts, inexplicably. 

He’s not nearly as openly affectionate as Atsumu, but he thinks he could sit there and watch them together for hours. 

Atsumu interrupts his train of thought with a gasp. “Omi-omi, look!”

“What?”

His nephew’s tiny, tiny hand curls all the way around Atsumu’s pinky, gripping like he’ll never let go. Atsumu blinks - are his eyes watering? - his pinky looks enormous in his little hand. 

“He’s so small,” Kiyoomi says, and it hits him like a punch to the gut. 

Kiyoomi is a little high strung, likes things proper and clean. Rationally, a child would be like launching a missile into his routine, blowing it to smithereens. Or - that’s the way he always thought it would be. 

It’s a strange feeling, to love someone when they barely even know you, when they barely even have a personality to speak of. For them to fill your chest until it overflows with foreign emotions. Kiyoomi’s always thought it would be enough to have volleyball, to do things properly and with care, and it is good. But he’s lucky enough to have Atsumu, and the problem is - he wants _more_. 

He moves to Atsumu’s side, curling his own pinky around their linked hands, and moves on instinct. It feels so achingly natural when he plants a light kiss on the baby’s forehead. 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says quietly, the gold wedding bands around their ring fingers glinting, “what do you think about adoption? For us?”

The smile that answers him glows warm. “Let’s do it, Omi-Omi.”

“We were lucky enough that both of us came to the decision that we wanted to adopt at the same time,” Kiyoomi smiles. “It just felt natural.”

____

“Atsumu-san, how does it feel to be a role model for your daughter? I’m sure seeing you play throughout her life would probably influence her love of volleyball! Any hopes for a future Miya volleyball fanatic?” The interviewer laughs a little, like she’s joking, but Atsumu’s responding smile feels a little stiff. 

“I’m really happy if she thinks of me as a role model,” Atsumu begins, and then stops for a moment. Kiyoomi curls his hand around his. Comfort. “But...” Atsumu trails off.

She’s crying, the noise of the stadium and the overwhelming number of people making her bury her face in her grandma’s shoulder. Atsumu reaches the fence between the stands and the court and stretches his arms out, and his mother struggles to lift his daughter towards him, until Atsumu enters her field of vision and she reaches for him in return. 

“Oh, my baby,” Atsumu laughs a little in sympathy, as Mitsuru buries her head in the crook of his neck. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” 

Kiyoomi comes up behind them and plants a gentle kiss on her forehead, the fond look on his face making Atsumu’s heart squeeze. The weight of the medal around his neck is considerable, but he can’t even think of that anymore. 

“Look,” Kiyoomi says, eyes a little wide, “she’s stopped crying.”

“Oh?” Atsumu leans back to look at her face, enough to see that the tears have stopped pouring down her cheeks. 

It’s as though the warmth is pulled from the air itself, rolled into a neat little ball like starlight, and inserted into Atsumu’s chest. The force of it knocks the air out of his lungs. That’s his baby. That’s the girl whose little hand wrapped around his pinky when she was born, and gave him this understanding of this dimension of life. That’s the girl who woke him up with her heartbreaking cries at every ungodly hour of the night. The girl whose heart and mind he’ll have a hand in forming, delicately and with care. 

All she sees is him, as he is. Volleyball or no volleyball. Gold medal or no gold medal. Atsumu lets out a chuckle, and Kiyoomi looks at him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that only Atsumu notices. He gets it too. It’s the three of them. It’s their world, and the rest of their lives will be as simple as this. 

This is the dream that refuses to slip through his fingers like sand and instead, coats his skin with warmth. 

“...But, we’re not putting any hopes on her. If she grows up healthy and happy, and we’re lucky enough to be around to see that happen, that’s more than enough,” Kiyoomi finishes Atsumu’s sentence for him. Atsumu shoots him a grin in return. “Exactly.”

Neither Atsumu nor Kiyoomi have any idea what the future holds for them. Neither of them know when this forever will end. But if life keeps handing them wonderful moments and wonderful people, who are they to refuse that kind of luck?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to twitter friends who indulged in my dadtsumu headcanons! thank you to ananya for sakuatsu’s daughter’s name. 
> 
> find me on twitter at @msbyshoyou!


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